Korman: Finding an outlet leaves no outlet for frustration

Last week, armed with only a Dell and an AC adapter, I set out on a journey in search of… Last week, armed with only a Dell and an AC adapter, I set out on a journey in search of what many consider a rare species nowadays.

While the Internet is becoming essential to our everyday lives, our laptop computers are evolving into delicate organisms that we must care for and nourish, often over the course of a full day of classes while periodically chipping away at a History of German Folklore term paper. Inevitably, this transition produces a collective need for power outlets from which to obtain the required voltage.

These sockets of sustenance are vital to the academic stability of a region like ours. We’re college students, and if we’re not charged, we’re powerless.

And so goes my journey.

8:43 a.m.: Alas, my journey requires caffeine. I buy a large cup at Einstein’s in Posvar Hall and set up camp at one of the many available seats along the edge of the basin formed by the lounge area.

There are no power sources in plain view, but this can be misleading. They’re often hidden behind furniture or embedded in the floor or even the ceiling. Spotting them can require the eye of a West Indian red-tailed hawk.

9:24 a.m.: I realize I have yet to begin a homework assignment that is due in less than an hour. To make matters worse, it requires Internet research, a notorious energy drainer.

I survey the area, eventually dropping to all fours to inspect crevices between couches, prompting one onlooker to offer her assistance in finding the contact lens she presumes I’ve lost.

The region appears dry. I recheck the usual spots along the walls. Nothing. This enclosure is powerless. I must gather my supplies and set up camp elsewhere, with my battery a discouraging 61 percent full.

That’s 39 percent empty.

11:02 a.m.: My grade on the aforementioned assignment appears bleak. At this stage, the lack of energy really starts taking its toll, distracting one from the task at hand, rendering one psychologically unable to work for four successive minutes without hitting CTRL + F3 to check one’s levels.

Working under these circumstances requires speed, discipline and oftentimes desperate conservation measures such as dimming one’s monitor to near-blackness or refraining from perusing the Facebook profile of a high school crush. Luckily, my situation is not yet so dire.

11:23 a.m.: In the thick jungle brush of Hillman Library’s third floor stacks, I spot a pair of outlets in the distance. Both are in use, but the fellow using the lower one is closing up Word, and it looks he’s ready to split.

I approach the situation much like a hyena watching a lion feast on the carcass of a gazelle: Once he leaves, I pounce, claiming the leftovers as my own. I will monitor the situation discreetly through a small gap between two conveniently positioned ecology journals.

2:08 p.m.: I finally snag the outlet and begin a much-needed recharge.

Unfortunately, my charger’s cable is much shorter than that of the previous occupant — the cord is drawn taut, about 3 inches off the floor, forming a booby trap of sorts. This potential hazard is not ideal, but it’s lunchtime and perhaps I can use it to catch a large rodent or marsupial.

3:10 p.m.: After an hour of solid, uninterrupted recharging, I am back at 64 percent. Regrettably, someone ended up tripping over my cable. Now I must relocate once again at risk of injuring another one of the locals.

I break from Hillman with what should be just enough power for my 10-minute PowerPoint presentation at 4. But the two PDF articles I must download, read and analyze for a night class, they’re another issue entirely.

5:28 p.m.: I take refuge at my emergency safety base because of an unexpected crisis: My battery has dipped to 13 percent because the two presenters after me didn’t bring their own laptops and had to use mine.

So with the clock against me, I choose to bypass a potentially time-consuming search for power on lower campus and finish my work in the men’s shower area at the Petersen Events Center. Although it doesn’t have any tables or chairs, it does have six outlets, none of which are ever in use.

Just as I was preparing to e-mail the analyses to my professor, something started beeping. I am slumped down, dejected, right next to the drain. I am all but certain the noise is my laptop telling me that its time has come. My mission ends prematurely.

Yet my speakers are off — a vital conservation strategy, might I add. I’ll disregard the mysterious high-pitched timbres echoing off the steamy tile in 30-second intervals for now and submit the assignment.

I begin my trek to class, with the beeps intensifying even after I desert the shower area. I am halfway down the hill when I realize I might be running late, and pulling out my cell phone to check the time, I see that I have one bar left, flashing.

E-mail Ben at bek25@pitt.edu.